


For the Shipwrecked Discord

by Feavel



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Shocking I know, and also i'm a little graphic with the pressing, only rated teen because of the two curse words in chapter one, surprisingly graphic for someone who's never been pressed to death before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feavel/pseuds/Feavel
Summary: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Disaster happens almost entirely as in canon, but with one extra guest: tragedy playwright Catherine "Cate" Ingram. Cate doesn't survive the night, and she's brought back as a ghost by a psychic considerably less skilled than Krishanti was. Somehow, he botches the job, and although Cate comes back in one piece, she can't speak.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No, Cate's not a real playwright, and of course she's not my self-insert what are you talking about  
> This whole fic was literally an excuse for me to try writing ASL into a story, because I'm learning ASL and I'm a little obsessed (it's so cool, y'all, and super-useful, and Deaf culture is really interesting). And what better way to avoid my responsibilities than by combining two things I'm obsessed with into a fanfiction that until now I swore would never see the light of day am I right  
> 

Many thoughts—some of them composed sentences, some of them nebulous emotions—flooded through Cate’s consciousness as she felt her ribcage crack and her lungs constrict. Of course, there was panic and a desire to fight back, but Eddie— _that absolute bastard_ —had left already, presumably to stalk his next victim, and there wasn’t much her small frame could do to fight back against the bookshelf full of oversized, leather-bound tomes, which felt like it weighed more every second.

She remembered Edgar’s conclusion that their fellow authors had been murdered in ways recalling their works; it served her right, then, that she had pressed her protagonist to death. Why couldn’t she have had him be shot or beheaded? Painful, sure, but only for a second. This was giving her way too much time to think and to consider her own mortality—never a favorite pastime. She forced herself to think of something else.

She was alone in the study, and unsure of whether or not anyone had heard her struggle with Eddie; he had evidently taken great care to set the bookshelf down on her torso, rather than simply toppling it (her protagonist had been pressed, after all, not crushed). Even if they had heard her scream, they were all the way on the ground floor, nearly as far as possible from Cate, one floor below the attic. The attic—had H.G. or Lenore heard her? Apparently not; Cate figured that they would have come running by now if they had heard yet another bloody-murder scream ( _Really, brain?_ ).

So she was alone. She’d always joked about dying alone; she had just figured that had meant dying unmarried, not completely, actually, physically alone.

Cate was brought crashing back to reality by a horrible cracking sound and a sharp jolt of pain; she surmised that her sternum had finally begun to give in. She had minutes left to live, assuming the bookshelf wouldn’t be removed in time. Too short, and yet too long, she decided. Her mind was wandering to all sorts of unpleasant places: for instance, the partygoers’ reactions if—no, _when_ , surely—they discovered her body.

Charlotte Brontë, she knew, would be apathetic at best, derisive at worst. Fine. Cate didn’t care so much what Charlotte thought (truth be told, Cate had observed Charlotte piggyback on enough other people’s theories that she had started to suspect that Charlotte was the one killing everyone and was trying to keep the blame off herself—apparently not).

Hemingway would certainly take a drink of whatever the hell was in that seemingly bottomless flask of his and make some reference to how he was glad Annabel was still alive—ew. He was the strongest, though, which meant that when the time came for Cate’s body to be moved, chances were he would be carrying her— _ew_.

Oscar could be trusted to make a joke of some kind. This didn’t bother Cate as much as it could have; she’d found most of Oscar’s jokes to be funny, if wildly inappropriate for the circumstances. She tried to think of possible quips for her own death, but none came to mind. This was why she didn’t write comedies, she supposed.

Edgar would probably have a similar reaction to the one he’d had for all the other murders that night: concern, somewhat suppressed in the desire to solve the damn mystery before anyone else died.

Annabel would be the most emotional, Cate was willing to bet money; she was so caring, even though she had only met Cate tonight. Picturing Annabel’s face made Cate’s own contort in secondhand sorrow, so she stopped.

Lenore, Cate wasn’t totally sure of, but she’d hoped she’d been becoming friends with the lady ghost, and she figured that Lenore had actual emotions under the one-liners, so hopefully she’d at least be a little upset.

Cate knew she was avoiding thinking of one guest, and she knew why, too. The second her eyes had fallen on the quiet, stammering, brilliant H.G. Wells (who wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes either), she had been transfixed like a schoolgirl. She had volunteered the first time everyone split up to go up to the attic with H.G. and Lenore, and in the relatively short time they had spent up there, Cate had felt herself falling further and further for the inventor. And it could absolutely have been (read: probably was) just projection or some selfish, ego-stroking fantasy, but she could have sworn she’d caught him staring at her a few times when she wasn’t initially looking.

Lenore had certainly picked up on Cate’s end of the crush; the second the two women were alone together, Lenore had made sure to tease her about it. When Cate had stammered out what was supposed to have been a denial, Lenore had laughed and informed her that “you two would be so cute together; I ship it.” Now, as she lay dying, Cate had regrets aplenty, but the most prominent one at that moment was that she would never get closure on the H.G. front.

Regardless of whether or not he returned her affections (although of course Cate hoped he did), she knew she’d feel better if she just knew how he felt. But alas, she was terrible at reading other people’s emotions. No time to get better at it, either, she thought as the bookshelf settled even further into her chest cavity. She could feel her remaining ribs and her sternum cracking all over, and she wondered whether she would suffocate before they finally gave way. The last thought that passed through her head as, after what felt like an eternity, the bones shattered and pierced her lungs and heart was not one that would have made her proud had she lived: _fucking finally_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cate's brought back as a ghost. Things don't go quite as planned.

No sooner had Cate’s eyes closed in an odd mixture of pain and relief than they were seemingly forced back open. By what? She was dead, surely; what was there to force her to do anything?

Also, hadn’t she died on her back? And in the study?

_What was going on?_

Cate looked around frantically for answers. She was in the living room of Edgar’s house, standing—no, floating—upright. Okay, so maybe this was a life-flashing-before-your-eyes type of deal. Her eyes landed on a boy—seventeen or eighteen at the most—whom she’d never met before. So maybe not. But who was he? Why could she see him? What was he doing? Was that lavender Cate smelled?

Oh.

This boy must have been a psychic like Krishanti, trying to bring Cate back as a ghost. The question of why crossed Cate’s mind, and she made a note to wonder it later. More pressing was that she had no idea what went into being brought back on the ghost’s end. She could only see the boy and the bookshelves behind him, and she could hear him saying something, though she couldn’t quite make it out. As she concentrated on him, she was able to pick out what he was saying: “Come back to us, please. A-As a ghost.” This boy wasn’t nearly as confident as Krishanti had been, but Cate wasn’t picky.

If you asked her about it later, Cate wouldn’t be able to tell you how she did it, or even how much of it was her and how much was the psychic boy. All she could tell you would be that one second, she could only see him and a bit of the room around him, and the next, she could see the whole living room and all its occupants.

There was the boy, looking surprised at the fact that she had actually done as he’d asked. There in a circle with him were Edgar, inscrutable as ever; Lenore, visibly excited at the idea of a ghost friend; Annabel, relieved that the boy’s summoning had worked; and—

“H.G.?” Cate asked, smiling hopefully. But something was wrong. She had said H.G.’s name, but no sound had come out. She cleared her throat to try again, but even that produced nothing audible. What was going on? She looked at Lenore for help, desperately hoping for a smile and a “This is normal; you’ll be able to talk in a minute.” But Lenore looked just as confused as Cate felt. Cate turned to each of her friends in turn; they all stared back at her, varying amounts of dismay on each face.

Cate whipped around to face the boy psychic. “Why can’t I talk?” She demanded. “What did you do wrong? Fix it!” The boy shook his head helplessly, eyes wide. He couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t talk. Would she not be able to talk for the rest of her afterlife? The thought alone was enough to send her almost to tears. She hadn’t thought of herself as particularly attached to her voice, but now that it was gone, she realized just how much she had used it when she was alive. She wouldn’t ever be able to sing again, either; one of the most enjoyable things in her life (afterlife?), gone just like that.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cate saw Annabel approach her and try to put an arm around her shoulders, but Annabel’s arm went right through her. That was it. Cate wept. She’d been brought back so she could see her friends again, but she couldn’t talk to them, and she couldn’t even touch them. She wished she could die all over again; the bookshelf had been less painful than this.

Cate ran upstairs, not caring what or who she ran through on the way. She barely registered that she had automatically run to the study where she’d been killed; she was still caught up in the new development. She looked for a place to hide, soon deciding to sit under the desk. Without thinking, she leaned against the desk’s back and immediately fell through it. Her sobbing redoubled as she curled up in a ball on her side where she’d fallen, half under the desk.

-

Everyone in the circle stood in silence for God only knew how long. The boy—Charon, he’d called himself, somewhat presumptively, the authors and ghosts now knew—was unable to make eye contact with anyone, electing instead to let his gaze dart among various patches of carpet.

“You said you had been doing this for years.” H.G.’s voice was quiet, but strong, and steadier than any present had ever heard it. “‘Since you were born. It runs in the family. Your father had performed seances for countless important people, and it was he who taught you.’ Were those not your exact words?”

Charon gulped, absent the mystic façade that had instilled confidence in everyone looking to bring Cate back. “I’m sorry,” he squeaked. “I really am.”

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” H.G. said sardonically. “This went remarkably well for a young boy’s _first summoning_.”

“H.G., we don’t know it’s his fault.” Edgar reached a hand out placatingly, though now he said it, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“No, Edgar,” H.G. replied without breaking his gaze from Charon. “It’s mine. I should have expressed my reservations sooner; for instance, when he faltered when asking for a white candle, as though he didn’t remember which color the candle was supposed to be. Or when he didn’t have any of the other materials he needed for the summoning: evidence either of the unpreparedness of a first-timer or an inability to pay for the supplies himself, because he has never done this before and therefore hasn’t been paid for it. I’m honestly surprised he was able to bring Catherine back in one piece, or indeed at all.”

H.G. walked out of the room, face stony. Annabel hesitated, then went after him to make sure he was all right. Lenore and Edgar looked at each other, and Lenore followed Annabel, leaving Edgar to pay Charon (less than the originally agreed-upon fee) and show him out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this even long enough to count as a chapter?  
> Whatever.  
> Cate needs some alone time.

Cate wasn’t sure for how long she remained curled up and crying, but when she was finally cried out, all she wanted to do was sleep, and no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t do that either. She tried instead to wake up—surely this was all a nightmare, and she would wake up on the floor of the attic, H.G. and Lenore puttering around and working on the “cameras” around her.

Nothing was happening. This was real. Cate stood, brushed herself off (needlessly), and began to pace around the study, letting her thoughts run wild until they abruptly stopped. When her thoughts stopped moving, so did she, and when they started up again, she did the same, not caring where they wandered off to, but remaining in the study herself.

-

A day had gone by, and Cate still hadn’t come back from wherever she’d run off to. The unspoken consensus was that no one would try to find her that day; she needed time to herself to mull everything over and get used to being a ghost and to not being able to… Well.

The second day, and Annabel was starting to get worried, but still agreed that maybe it wasn’t a good idea yet to go looking and disturb Cate.

The third day, Lenore made the comment that “you rubbed off on her, Edgar.” No one laughed, including Lenore herself. Edgar reminded her that it was at about this point in his so-called “hermit phases” that she would have begun to try to annoy him out of hiding.

The fourth day, H.G. couldn’t take it anymore and suggested that they split up and look for her, because being alone for four days straight wasn’t healthy for anyone, ghost or otherwise. Another motivator (though he told no one, he was fairly certain Lenore knew) was that he’d grown fond of Cate, and selfishly wanted to spend time with her.

They agreed to each take a floor of the house: Edgar would search the basement and the cellar; Annabel, the ground floor; H.G., the upstairs; Lenore, the attic. If-slash-when one of them found Cate, they wouldn’t immediately go get everyone else, just in case she still wasn’t ready for all four of them at once. And with that, they set to searching; they were all more worried and eager to find her than they had let on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cate has an epiphany. Things will be okay, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASL!  
> So, quick briefing: **_bolded and italicized text that is otherwise normal English_** is when a character is signing in ASL, but I wrote an English translation, as though I were an interpreter speaking for the character. **BOLDED TEXT IN ALL CAPS** is as direct a translation as I can provide (I'm only in ASL 2) of the ASL a character is using, or what's called a gloss. **Bolded text that isn't italicized, but is in English** is when a character using ASL signs, but English grammar and sentence structure (because ASL has its own of each of those; it's its own language, separate from English). A # in front of a word means a character is fingerspelling it, so for example, it'd be **#ANNABEL** or **#EDGAR** , because that's how the pros do it (or so I'm told) and it takes up a lot less space than **A, N, N, A, B, E, L** or **E, D, G, A, R**.  
>  I'm using modern ASL, because that's what I'm learning, and I have no idea what signs were different in the 19th century (which I assume Cate's from, since that's when most of the Dinner Party guests were active) and which signs were the same as they are now, let alone what the grammar was then.  
> Also, whenever Cate signs, assume she's doing it really slowly and mouthing along. The mouthing-along thing is something you'd want to avoid in real ASL, but for the sake of teaching ASL to someone who can't sign when you can't/don't want to speak, it'll do.

Cate’s first day in the study was spent mostly alternating between pacing-and-thinking and sitting-and-crying.

The second day, after another unsuccessful round of trying to sleep, Cate decided that sitting around and moping wouldn’t do her any good. The prospect of interacting with anyone was still unpleasant, though, so instead Cate set to work teaching herself to pick things up. She was in a room full of books, in a house packed to the gills with them. God forbid she go her whole afterlife without being able to read books, on top of being mute. _Okay, Ingram, too soon._

The third day, the only thing Cate had managed to physically affect was the desk drawer, which she’d opened all the way after a solid hour of concentration. She had to take a break after that, but wondered if it would be easier to work through and ignore physical fatigue now that she was a ghost. She gathered her strength, as it were, and tried to close the desk drawer. This time it only took her half an hour. She wasn’t sure what the standard learning curve was for “going corporeal,” as Lenore called it, but regardless of the curve, progress was progress, and Cate knew she’d just made a lot of it. She found she did still have to fade back into immateriality to recover from the concentration overload, but each time she did it, she gained more strength back, so there was hope.

The fourth day, Cate tried to get a book off the shelf, which turned out to be somewhat overambitious. She figured it would have been smarter to work on not going through things before trying to pick them up and move them. _Missed that train, didn’t you?_ She teased herself.

_Missed the train_. Why did that sound so familiar? Obviously, it was an idiom, but why did she associate it so strongly with her life? This was going to drive her insane, she thought as she put out a hand to place it on a book. The book right in front of her was too thin for her whole hand, so she pulled back two fingers and let her index and middle fingers reach for the top corner of the book.

Wait a minute.

She pulled her hand back, first two fingers still stuck together, and stared. Almost without thinking, she replicated the handshape with her left hand, rubbed the right fingers on top of the left. Her right hand formed itself into an L shape, which sped across the left fingers, closing at the end so the pads of her finger and thumb touched each other. Her right hand closed into a fist, which she brought to her chest and moved in a circle over her heart, and if she’d had physical legs, they would have collapsed.

**_Train gone, sorry._ **

She hadn’t _heard_ ‘missed the train’ before; she’d _seen_ it. It was her childhood friend Joy’s favorite way to tease Cate when she missed what Joy had signed. Joy had been born Deaf, and when they were children, Joy had taught Cate American Sign Language. By the time Joy and her family had moved to Washington, D.C. when she and Joy were eighteen, Cate had been able to sign very nearly fluently.

How could Cate have forgotten that sign language existed? It had been a long time since she was eighteen, but not _that_ long. The whole past four days of hiding in self-pity could have been avoided, if she’d remembered! Well, she remembered now, and there was no way she was going to shut up.

She had to find someone and tell them.

Cate ran out of the study, not even bothering to try opening the door, running through it instead. She hadn’t made it to the end of the hallway before sprinting right through a familiar pair of goggles. Their owner made it a few more paces before registering what had happened and stopping in his tracks. This gave Cate enough time to process it for herself and to run right back through H.G. so she was in front of him. She began signing at the speed of light:

**_Guess what I just remembered? I know ASL! My friend Joy taught me when we were kids! I can’t believe I’d forgotten! I mean, I guess it makes sense, since I’d just had a huge shock, but what’s important is that I remember now! I can communicate with you-all without talking!_ **

H.G. blinked in surprise and Cate suddenly remembered that he was A) hearing and B) English, and therefore he had literally no reason to know American Sign Language. She pulled an “oops-I’m-sorry” face and tried again, slowly this time, and mouthing the words as clearly as she could.

**JUST-RECENTLY I REMEMBER WHAT? AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE I-KNOW!**

H.G. peered at Cate and repeated, “You know American Sign Language?” Cate nodded like her life depended on it, grinning madly, before continuing.

**PAST LEARN TALK I-CAN’T, SURPRISE, CAUSE FORGET. BUT PAST NOT-IMPORTANT. IMPORTANT WHAT? I-REMEMBER! COMMUNICATE-WITH-YOU I-CAN! TALK I-DON’T-NEED!**

The smile that spread across H.G.’s face could easily have lit up the whole house. It certainly lit up Cate’s heart. “That’s wonderful!” He looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, “Do—do you suppose you could—teach me American Sign Language? I mean—it’s—it’s just that—reading lips is a time-consuming endeavor, and—and not always successful, particularly with English.”

Cate smiled. H.G. was always so adorable when he was flustered.

**OF-COURSE I-TEACH-YOU WILL. FUN! #ASL BEAUTIFUL, FUN.**

“Th—Thank you.” H.G. hesitated. “Am I correct in deducing that American Sign Language has different grammar and syntax rules to English? That is—spoken English?”

Cate nodded.

**#ASL, ENGLISH NOT-SAME. #ASL LANGUAGE ALONE, SEPARATE. #ASL WORD, WORD, WORD LESS, CONCEPT MORE.**

“Ah, I see. Can—Can you explain the grammar to me?”

**TRY I-CAN.** Cate paused and considered. How best to convey grammar? She knew a lot of signs, but some of the words she’d use to explain grammar when speaking, she didn’t know the signs for, or if indeed they existed.

**#ASL GRAMMAR CALLED WHAT? TOPIC COMMENT. UM… OH! #OK. ENGLISH, SAY: I SEE A BIG, BLACK DOG. YOU-UNDERSTAND?**

H.G. nodded.

**#ASL, ENGLISH NOT-SAME. #ASL, SAY: DOG, BIG, BLACK, I-SEE. TOPIC: DOG. COMMENTS: BIG, BLACK, I-SEE. YOU-UNDERSTAND?**

H.G. nodded again. Cate trusted that he understood, but teaching him ASL grammar _in_ ASL when he didn’t know any ASL words was going to be a struggle. That example alone had taken her ages.

**MAYBE I-TEACH-YOU #ASL WORDS FIRST, SO MY SIGNING YOU UNDERSTAND. GRAMMAR AFTER.**

“Maybe so,” H.G. smiled. It had occurred to Cate that she should also teach ASL to Edgar, Lenore, and Annabel, and that it would be easier to teach it to all four of her friends at once, like a small class. But there was a part of her that somewhat selfishly wanted to stay alone with H.G. as long as possible.

**WHILE WORDS YOU-LEARN, SIGN ENGLISH YOU-CAN. #ASL SIGNS, ENGLISH GRAMMAR. #OK?**

“I’ll do whatever’s easiest for you to teach,” H.G. assured her.

**Great! I’ll sign in English too, to make things easier. We’ll start with the alphabet. Copy me when I show you letters, okay?**

“All right.”

**A.** H.G. held his hand in a fist to mimic Cate’s.

**B.** H.G.’s hand flattened and his thumb came across his palm.

**C…**

-

Neither H.G. nor Cate could have said exactly how long they’d been standing there, but Cate had taken H.G. through the whole alphabet several times and was quizzing him on which letter was which by the time Lenore came up the stairs behind H.G., looking more defeated than Cate had ever seen her.

“H.G., we can’t find her. Any luck up here, or did she—” Lenore’s eyes fell on Cate. “Oh, my God. Have you been up here the whole time?” H.G. started guiltily, turning to face Lenore.

“Oh! Well, ah…”

Cate smiled and moved so H.G. could see her. **I think she means me.**

“Ah. I—I see.” Cate turned to Lenore. **Hi.**

Lenore raised an eyebrow. “Hi,” she said. “You okay, Cat?”

Cate nodded. She had started to speed up her signing and mouthing ever so slightly with H.G., so she slowed them both back down for Lenore, since Cate had no reason to believe Lenore had seen ASL before. **Yeah, I’m okay, I think. I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner. I was on my way to talk to you when I ran into—through—H.G. We started talking, and one thing led to another, and I’m teaching him sign language.**

Lenore grinned. “Just him?” If Cate had still had blood, it would all be in her face as she signed, **I want to teach ASL to all four of you. H.G. just found me first.**

“Sure. Just, maybe come downstairs now and, like, let Annabel and Edgar know you’re not hibernating or moving to Mars or whatever, okay?”

Cate laughed (as much as it could be called laughing when it made no sound). **Okay.**

**Author's Note:**

> Even though this is a fun idea, chances are, I won't write any more of it, for a few reasons. First, I'm only in ASL 2, like I said before, and I'm not even remotely fluent in ASL and I'm still learning about Deaf culture. I learned in ASL 1 that name signs can only be given by Deaf people, but I don't know whether or not there are any modifications to that rule for fictional characters (i.e., I don't know whether I'm allowed to give fictional characters sign names for my own personal use, even though I'm hearing), so I figured I'd play it safe and not give any of the characters sign names. Only problem with that is that the only ideas I had for this fic were everything you just read and the characters getting sign names. So there's that. And second, try as I might, and no matter how adorable Cate and I find him, I can't bring myself to write H.G. being with/"like-liking"/etc. anybody but Lenore, just because they're so dang cute together.  
> So yeah. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
